The downstairs neighbor's car windows were still open.

It was 7am on a Sunday morning and I don't know, for the life of me, what I was doing awake that early, besides waiting for the Hollywood and Vine farmer's market to open, but I’m glad I was awake or I might have missed it.

A strange noise, like a parade of tap dancing elves taking over the residential street. A disconcerting feeling of correctness overtaking my entire being. Something special and simple and easy to miss if you are sleeping like the rest of the neighborhood is at this hour.

Just me on the sidewalk. And that guy being walked by his dog. And the local recycling man with his shopping cart, personally going through every dumpster to collect any CA deposit beverage containers that might have been inadvertently thrown away. He had just jumped out of the dumpster behind my house and we made eye contact as we both headed to the street.

I always remember that I am the ultimate water proof container. It just slides off of my skin and I don't even rust or short out or anything.

I walked around the block and felt like the banana tree, suddenly so much prouder, so optimistic and swollen - every pour opening up to absorb this goodness which brigns me out to the street. We have both been waiting over three months for this. We have both been covered in greasy film from the LA streets, we've both been feeling a bit dry.

I think of gardening in Hollywood like a package of instant oatmeal; "just add water."

The sprinklers still sputtered two manicured lawns down the block. The downstairs neighbor's car windows were still open. It didn't matter much, though, because me and the banana tree didn't get even enough rain to wash off or feel clean. The July rain was less like a shower and more like a ... parade of tap dancing elves. On a very short holiday. With very little stamina. Over before it began.

But there was a rainbow. And now it is 8am. Farmer's market ready for business.

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I don't see how petroleum bottles have anything to do with clean water. They are the opposite of clean water. If aliens come, after we self-destruct, and excavate earth like a time capsule, they would think we worship plastic. Because that's all that would be left and that's all that would survive. Landfills of laptops and dashboards and dildos.

I don't see why people think they can drink clean water from a bottle. Or why they deserve to. If they keep drinking that "clean" water, they will definitely be forced to buy the plastic bottled water for drinking as well as bathing as well as watering the plants because all the ground water will be a toxic public pool due to all the plastic bottles leaching bleck into it.

Not to mention, the plastic leaches while it is waiting for you in the store. And leaches some more as you drink from it.

Leach away, Leacher.

And another reason you can't drink clean water from a bottle is because the karma surounding that bottle, karma leaching into your water, is dirty. Dirty karma running through your body. Dirty karma and leaching toxins and alien dildos, these plastic bottles.

So you tell me - for your health, which water do you choose to drink? Pretty soon we'll be purchasing clean air. Eventually the poor will suffocate cause they can't spare a dime for the necessities of life.

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I eat a lot of produce, right? And I have a bit of organic food scrap going as garbage. So I decided to buy a pet. It was gonna be a billygoat, but who's gonna keep him off the balcony during the day?

So I decided on red wrigglers. 2,000 red wrigglers in this urban kitchen. You should see them - they so ... wormy. Just like a boneless aemeobic blob - they so cute. I gave them names, because I want them to know how much they mean to me as a pet owner. But it got too hard to tell them apart. And they were getting a chip on their jelly spine every time I confused them with a sibling.

So I named them all Bruce.

Bruce is the best pet ever. He doesn't have a mouth. He can't chew nuthin. He doesn't have digestive juices either, so the truth is, he doesn't even eat my food scraps, he let's bateria eat them - that's fermentation - that's decomposition ... and he just suctions up the bacteria juice and poops out compost.

Like yeast making wine. But instead of drinking the liquid waste portion, as we grape afficionados do, I water plants with the most nutritious water ever: worm tea.

Worm tea and coconut water. The most nutritionally beneficial liquids available: "Heals wounds instantly. The only thing I used on my last four piercings." Only for one minute though, of course. Since the healing was so very rapid.

Before my very eyes. In fact, I was never hurt.

I was whole long before I was ever seperate.

Like Bruce. Looking like thousands of selves, but only ... one. The image of wholeness. Only one Bruce.

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Weight gain, weight loss. Public sobbing. Collapsing in tears. Numerous times during the day. Panic attack - not anxiety attack - a panic attack - it's more like a sierzure directed outward.

Gifting of possessions. Limiting communication. Time passing slowly. Time frightenly expedient. Feeling alone and thinking of Death a lot. But not in the "something white is waiting for me" way. More like "oh fuck, don't let me die lonely" way.

I must be loved when I die. I must be loved into the other world.

Oh, my god. I just realized that my cycles are becoming predictable. They aren't happening to me. They are directly proportional to my mania highs. Oh, god, I'm just better at it now. Well, I better keep getting better because here we go again.

Manic depression. I spend most of my life, after accepting there is such a thing as Manic Depression, denying its existence. But right now I can not deny that I am strongly exhibiting the bahavior that connects myself to many others based on a set of predictable symptoms when under stress. We powerful, emotional, creative outsiders.

Hi, my name is tonya kay and I am manic depressive. I guess they call it Biploar and there's even a l and a ll now. But dopamine and seratonin rich mania (oh please can I tell you about the mania? The high, the flying, the succeeding, the embodiment of connected, guided and free!) - the highs of mania and the depth of hollow back alley depression. No; despair. No, the mercury might of mars and masculine fire turned inward turned inward to self-examine and become shallow and loose it all right there. Coincidentally the dompamine and seratonin take a holiday from brain chemistry when all this is happening and you have no chance but to ... go all the way .... down.

...

.



Hello, everyone. I am a manic depressive rapid cycling bipolar passionate brilliant artist. My life is art. People make art of my life. I am the tragic demonic spoiled encouraged enlightened ... evolved.

And I'm living it all medication-free.

Free. Free.

Free

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I found it when I was walking. And picked it up in my hand. Floating it around so I could take a better look and silently asking it if it wanted to come with me.

Yes. Too big for my pocket, so I walked with it in the open all the way to the house. And when I got inside, the windows without screens were wide open - as I left them. And when I floated off my shoes, the wood slat floor felt soft - like it did this morning. And when I got to the bedroom, I thought you would be there. But I laid on the summer bed in the sunshine anyway.

Staring at the large leafed hanging plant just living, just living in the corner. And I looked over to the altar, which is a clothes dresser, and saw it on the top. It was on the altar and I don't even remember putting it down. I had intended on placing it with ceremony and intention on the altar. But there it is and here I am rolling around on organic cotton sheets.

Sometimes you do things without even knowing it. And sometimes you don't do things without knowing it, too.

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